


wherever you go (i'm your shadow)

by graywhatsit



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Ghost!Shane, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Maybe Magic Maybe Mundane, Other, are ghosts real? who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 03:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14685822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: “Shane spent years taunting ghosts and demons. He got a kick out of it, would do it even if there was no reason to. Shane Alexander Madej’s death was no accident; the ghosts finally caught up to him.”-------------------Ryan, after a terrible accident, tries to cope.





	wherever you go (i'm your shadow)

**Author's Note:**

> aggressively refuses to do extra research on how modern web media production companies work
> 
> in this house, we die like men
> 
> my first foray into bfu, so. i'm very sorry.
> 
> i always knew i'd come back to rpf and i hate it
> 
> inspired by the bellaire house postmortem and [this](https://twitter.com/ryansbergara/status/972170920738504704) tweet thread
> 
> title from shadow by birdy

It’s a normal, normal,  _ normal _ day in Los Angeles, and Ryan is a little too numb to feel like it’s mocking them.

The sky is bright blue, the faintest wisps of clouds marking the edges of the valley, a persistent grayish haze over the city, and the sun burns down, gold and heavy, sending the temperature rocketing into the low 90s. There isn’t one bit of a breeze to cool them, sitting on the outside benches.

He keeps expecting to see Shane, either right next to him or on Sara’s other side, tall enough to block the sun but too skinny for it to make much of a difference. He keeps turning, hoping to catch a stupid flower-print shirt, or sunglasses perched on a long, straight nose.

And Sara  _ is _ there, next to him on the bench, for the exact same reason Ryan is.

The surprise of not seeing Shane is even more gut-punching in their normal lunch spot.

(“Should we… do you want to eat somewhere else, instead?”

Sara’s hair is even curlier and wilder than normal, and she looks as exhausted as Ryan feels, and she clenches her lunch between her hands while they just stare; stare at the comfy seats ringing the low coffee table, where they can have a little peace and quiet and  _ air conditioning for once _ .

“Yeah,” she replies, and it’s raspy, and quiet, and not Sara at all. “Maybe outside?”

Outside is basically on fire. They never eat outside.

“Sounds great,” Ryan says, and he kind of means it.)

She’s picking at her sandwich, and Ryan catches her doing the same abortive glances that he is, perking up as if the silence between them is holding a wheeze of laughter instead of being dead air.

Ha, dead air.

Ryan swallows hard, and he isn’t very hungry for his burrito anymore.

 

* * *

  
  


It’s a few days later that finally, the issue of Unsolved is brought up.

Well, Unsolved has been brought up since the news first broke, when everyone was told why Shane had all but vanished from their feeds, once the shock eased a little and some well-meaning souls found themselves able to speak up about it, as if Ryan, as if Sara, as if Shane’s family didn’t have enough to deal with, still buried in a cold fog of grief.

Ryan knew they were grieving, too, in a weird way, but the people hounding his social media were just too much, too soon, and-- well, the break from it all was good for him; he didn’t say anything stupid, or reckless, and took the time to let the frustration cool off, settle back away from the boiling anger.

(He’d wanted to be angry, and he  _ still _ wants to be angry, and sometimes, at night, he lets himself be.

Once, a voice that sounds remarkably like Shane tells him he’s being dumb, and that being angry and petulant doesn’t solve anything, and he doesn’t get sleep that night.)

But it’s all unofficial, all fan speculation, and as far as they know, it’ll just be another Brent situation and it’ll come back with a new co-host.

And then the official email comes in.

_ The hiatus can continue for the time being.  _

_ Should we start looking for a new host?  _

_ Is this something you’d like to continue on your own? _

_ What’s going to become of Unsolved? _

Professional emails are a little more laid-back here than most places, and Ryan is usually glad for that, but the half-casual, too-sympathetic tone just  _ burns _ him. He reads it again and again, seeing the words and barely ingesting them, sitting away from his desk because the one right next to it is empty and it  _ shouldn’t _ be. Before he knows it, half his day is gone, and he’s  _ angry _ .

_I would like a little more time_ , he ends up writing, which is not what he wants to say in the slightest. _I would like to continue the show, but I don’t want to rush something for the viewers._ _They deserve the same quality as before_.

Ryan hardly expects to get away with that, feels like they know exactly what he really wants to write back to them, and waits for the email that tells him exactly what he should do and when.

_ Of course _ , the email says, when he checks his inbox the next day.  _ Of course. _

Maybe he’d underestimated Unsolved’s popularity.

Maybe they had a heart.

Probably not.

 

* * *

  
  


At night, when he’s not actively awake and being angry at everything he can possibly direct his anger towards, Ryan dreams about the incident.

Maybe ‘dreams’ is the wrong word. In dreams, everything’s a little fuzzy, out of focus. Everything you feel is a few steps separated from you, like you’re watching a movie of yourself, from your own perspective: anything weird is normal, any feeling is dulled and cottony, any emotion is distant. Nothing really matters, because in a few hours, you wake up and it never happened.

No, Ryan doesn’t dream about it.

He  _ remembers _ it.

It’s sharp and clear behind his eyelids: early-summer hot, a large, crumbling building rising up out of the dark. This place is  _ crawling _ with ghosts, it has to be.

“Not just from previous occupants,” he says, to Shane, beside him, to TJ, behind them, “but from urban explorers who got a little too cocky.”

“I’m sure.” Shane’s looking up at the building, camera tilted to get a good shot of the imposing shape of it all. The straight, black edges of the walls cut through the faint starlight, a black hole on Earth, a presence so dark your brain scrambles just to make sense of it in space. “Just look at it, it’s falling apart.”

Well, yeah, but Ryan’s got more of the story to tell. “I  _ mean _ ,” he presses, “the ghosts inside don’t take too kindly to non-believers, according to some accounts. The most activity happens when skeptics are part of the group.”

Ryan can just see Shane’s face in the bright, pale circle of his flashlight, and he grins when Shane’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, I see. You’re using me to get ‘evidence’ for you-- and here I thought you hated me taunting the ghosts.”

“No, I still do.” He  _ does _ , because Shane always drags him into his boasts and insults, and one day it’s gonna bite both of them in their respective asses. “But this time it’s useful. Tonight, we’re gonna disband your little group of skeptics. Bye, Shaniacs.”

Shane looks at the camera like he’s on  _ The Office _ , and Ryan can see it, just in his periphery, but he’s  _ not _ going to let it get under his skin. Tonight, he has the most belligerent, annoying skeptic he’s ever met, up against a whole legion of ghosts known for hating disbelievers. He couldn’t have asked for better.

He’s going to get that proof.

The inside of the place is in even worse shape than the outside. A fine cloud of probably-toxic dust hangs in the air, and the floor crackles and snaps under their feet, littered with dead leaves, glass, and broken, crumbling chunks of wall. The entrance, before you start getting into hallways and hallways of deserted rooms, is full of support pillars, and more than one of the rectangular beams is cracked nearly in half, plaster falling away to show shattered stone and twisting rebar.

It was once a hospital, Ryan remembers, and relays it to Shane and TJ, though he knows it’ll just be replaced with proper narration later. A place almost more religion and prayer than medical science, with more and more patients losing their lives over the years due to lack of proper treatment and over-reliance on faith healing.

Shane has this look on his face when Ryan turns over to them, somewhere between sorrowful and frustrated. It’s an unfortunately common look, when Ryan explains on location, and one that never makes it into the final cut. Ryan can’t really blame him-- he feels the same way, every time he reads up on some new place. “And no one ever looked into this?”

“They did, eventually, but it was way too late for most of them.” Ryan picks his way over to the remains of a front desk, all old, rotting wood and dust. “Mortality rates were higher back then, too, so I guess it didn’t raise any warning flags at first.”

“If my doctor’s first treatment option was an exorcism, I’d call that a warning flag,” Shane comments, following after Ryan at a much more leisurely pace, even with his long-legged strides. “Oh, I see on your chart you have a runny nose and congestion; it must be  _ demons _ !”

Ryan ends up wheezing, no longer focused of the yawning dark of the halls beyond the lobby and what lies in wait, and it’s only partly because of the dust that poofs up every time someone moves.

Everything else is Shane.

It’s Shane in rare form, hamming it up, cranking every last insult and jab up to eleven, cajoling the shadow-creature in room 118, asking the orderly in the east wing to come perform experiments on him, loudly proclaiming with each and every breath that he  _ does not believe _ .

It’s Shane a little more subdued when they reach the children’s section, because children had no control over their care, and died due to their parents’ insistence on faith.

It’s Shane later on, when they reach the truly physically dangerous part of the building, even more dilapidated than the rest, when he goes first and guides Ryan through the obstacles, hand reaching out to grab him by the elbow so he doesn’t trip and break something.

(This is the part he likes to cling to, when he dreams-- no, remembers. 

The image of Shane, careful, irritatingly soothing, cracking jokes when Ryan trips over his own feet, hazel eyes bright behind the clear frames of his glasses, but always making sure Ryan gets through safe.

His face is scruffy, though not quite a beard, and the sleeves of his flannel are rolled up to his elbows. His hair is doing some gravity-defying, squirrely thing that Ryan could never explain or even hope to replicate, even if he wanted.

Shane is close to him, comfortable; warm, and happy, even in an awful building hunting something he doesn’t believe in, and.

_ Alive _ .)

And Shane goes first, over the floor that’s only half covered in floorboards, the rest criss-crossed by wooden beams, several (too many) feet above the basement floor, because Ryan needs to get over, try and find the ghost of Stephen.

“He has a room full of books, Shane; one witness claimed he spoke to him by throwing certain ones on the floor.”

“Ghost 101,” Shane replies, snarky as always, even though he’s repeating a joke Ryan’s heard a dozen times from him, but he doesn’t try to talk Ryan out of it. The room is across this decaying floor and Shane just walks out there, because Ryan’s determined to get proof however he can, and Shane’s a better friend than a lot of people-- especially fans-- will give him credit for.

So he does this, for Ryan. He walks out, and.

He’s about six feet out. Dust is still swirling around his feet, kicking up whenever he gingerly places a foot down, testing for creaks and groans.

“This should be okay, if you guys come over quick,” Shane starts, turning in place to hold out a hand. It’s not necessarily for Ryan to hold, but he kind of wants to, anyway, if only for stability’s sake.

Then, the whole floor  _ groans _ , and there’s one split second seared into Ryan’s memory: Shane, still reaching out for him, eyes wide and face paler than ever, even washed out by the flashlight.

Then, the floor lurches with a sharp crack, and Shane isn’t there anymore.

“ _ Shane _ ,” someone yelps, and it could be Ryan, TJ, or the both of them, and they scramble to the edge of the newly-formed pit, where the floor is more sturdily supported by stone. A trembling beam of light cuts through the dark, through the cloud of dust, and-- there.

A pair of long, skinny, jean-covered legs. The plaid pattern of a flannel shirt. He can’t see Shane’s face, but his body is twisted up all wrong, even for someone so gangly, and the colors of his clothes are changing rapidly. Something moves in the dark, beyond the reach of his flashlight, a little whisper that could be a voice or his own gasp, and Ryan is sick.

After that, it’s less clear. This is the part that feels like he’s dreaming.

The part where there’s silence, and suddenly light and noise everywhere, unfamiliar bodies gathering him up and away from the pit.

The part where he’s sitting, a blanket around his shoulders, and he asks where Shane is, and no one answers him.

The part where someone, many people, ask him questions and he can’t even  _ think _ , let alone speak.

It still feels like he hasn’t woken up.

 

* * *

  
  


(If someone were to ask, now, what had happened, there are two ways Ryan could answer.

Option one: the story the police told everyone.

“It was a stupid, reckless mistake. The building was dangerous, he took a risk, and the floor collapsed under him. He landed wrong and broke his neck on impact, and the debris crushed him, cut into him. Shane Alexander Madej’s death was an accident.”

Option two: the truth, as far as Ryan could see it.

“Shane spent years taunting ghosts and demons. He got a kick out of it, would do it even if there was no reason to. The resident spirits were the first ones to do something about it. Shane Alexander Madej’s death was no accident; the ghosts finally caught up to him.”

Ryan always tells the truth, and sometimes, he laughs.

Then, he cries.)

 

* * *

  
  


Unsolved is Ryan’s baby.

Everyone who knows about the show knows this fact, knows how Ryan slaved over it, campaigned for it, worked so hard to get it to where it is now. It’s his passion project, and they all remember the panic when Brent had left for other work, leaving Ryan scrambling to keep his show afloat.

That’s why, when Ryan says he’s done with Unsolved, two weeks after the email, it’s such a shock.

The flurry of messages from the higher-ups in the office are an especially annoying mix of furious and pleading, in turns suggesting co-hosts and threatening Ryan with anything they can throw at him, from firing him to giving his baby to someone else to take care of.

He doesn’t think they’ll actually do anything.

Ryan’s a little more restrained when it comes to telling the fanbase; he doesn’t use the words ‘quit’ or ‘ending’, because he knows how they can get when an  _ episode _ is a little late, and telling them it’s all over would be disastrous at best. Even saying what he does-- ‘I’m stepping back from Unsolved for a while’-- causes such a backdraft that he wishes he’d never said anything, just let it fade away without ceremony.

Even his friends are confused, because they’ve seen him sleepless, overjoyed, in the zone over this thing, working til exhaustion and then some just to get everything he can right before it’s time to go up.

In the end, they all ask the same question, in the same way: concerned, angry, bewildered.

_ Why _ ?

Ryan tells his bosses that there are other projects he’s interested in doing, that they need to find someone who can do the show justice, that if they just throw anyone in the host position, both the production and the reception will be a nightmare.

Ryan tells the fans that he isn’t quitting BuzzFeed, that Unsolved will still be there, and they don’t have to worry about either of them disappearing; it just won’t be Ryan Bergara’s Unsolved, anymore.

Ryan tells his friends that sometimes, you need to move on before it gets stale, that he’s done all he can for the show and it needs to grow and go somewhere he could never take it, that he’s excited for the future.

Ryan tells no one the truth, this time.

That he can’t do this without Shane.

Though, sometimes, with the looks he gets and the comments he reads, he thinks they all picked up on it, anyway.

 

* * *

  
  


**_What the hell do you think you’re doing?_ **

It’s three AM. Ryan has not been sleeping, though he’s been laying in bed for hours, staring up at his dark ceiling in the quiet, hoping for at least a couple hours’ rest before he needs to get up for work.

He’s used to the sound of his own voice in his head, used to that voice asking him the same exact question, and used to thinking back  _ I don’t know _ .

This isn’t his own voice, and it  _ isn’t _ in his own head, and that’s what makes him sit bolt upright in bed, because he knows that voice very,  _ very _ well.

“Shane?” He asks, before he can even process that he’s saying something, and immediately feels a little foolish. Half asleep and talking to his own auditory hallucinations, because he’s heard Shane’s voice before, and no point of asking ever made him answer back. It’s not him, and it’s never  _ been _ him-- it’s his head.

**_You know it, baby._ **

Ryan knows dreams by this point, and knows how to shake himself awake. A pinch just leaves him with a soon to be bruised forearm, though, and the notifications on his phone are all in English, perfectly legible.

**_Come on, you know you aren’t dreaming. It’s me, your ol’ pal Shane!_ **

There are a lot of things Ryan wants to say. He wants to say he’s finally cracked under the sleepless nights and grief, and now he’s just making up his best friend to cope. He wants to say he’s missed Shane. He wants to say that he’s just dreaming, still, even after he’s checked, and if he lays down and closes his eyes, it’ll go away.

Instead, he says, because he may as well lean into this breakdown and get it over with as soon as possible, “So, I guess you believe in ghosts now, huh?”

The voice that sounds like Shane huffs.  **_Is that all you have to say to me? Rude, you haven’t even answered my question._ **

“I was trying to sleep, there’s your answer. Now, leave me alone and let me get back to it.” Ryan flops back down, closing his eyes tight and pulling his blankets closer. It sounds too similar, and he can’t deal with his own brain making this up in some fucked coping mechanism, and if it isn’t his brain, if it’s what he wishes were true, that it’s a ghost, and  _ Shane’s _ ghost of all things, then.

He can’t really deal with that, either.

**_That’s not what I meant._ **

The voice is closer, and when Ryan opens his eyes the slightest amount, he swears there’s a flicker of a shadow on his bed, the shape of a torso against the headboard, and a face, tilted down towards him.

“Oh, god, it’s you.” It comes out strangled, lost in the rustle of his sheets as he sits up again, eyes wide.

The shadow is gone, but Shane speaks again, and it comes from where the shadow lay, so it  _ must _ be him.  **_You don’t have to sound so disappointed. I thought you’d be glad to see me._ **

He is. It’s warring with his terror and his awe in his chest: Shane is here, ghosts are real, and oh, fuck,  _ ghosts are real _ . “I can’t see you. You were there, but now you aren’t.”

Shane hums.  **_But you can hear me, still._ **

Ryan bobs his head, and it’s dark in the room, but fuck if he knows how ghost vision or whatever works.

**_Okay, good. Then tell me: what the hell do you think you’re doing, Bergara? And don’t try and deflect, this time_ ** , he says.  **_With the show, with you. You sleep even less than normal, and I’m hearing that you’re cancelling your show--_ **

“ _ Our _ show,” Ryan insists, and it must surprise Shane as much as it does Ryan, himself, because he doesn’t start talking again. “It’s-- Unsolved is-- was-- our show.” He takes a breath, resolutely not looking over at the side of the bed, where Shane must be. Though he can’t see him, if Ryan looks, all sorts of messy ideas and feelings are gonna fall right out of his head. “There’s not a show if you aren’t in it with me. That’s it.”

**_Horseshit_ ** , Shane replies.  **_It existed before me and it’ll be fine after me. You’ll just focus on proving I exist, instead._ **

Proving. Ryan doesn’t keep any of the ghost hunting equipment on hand, contrary to popular belief, but what he does have is an audio recording app and a ghost (semi-)intelligently conversing with him in his own house. He grabs his phone, taps through a few screens. “Do you mind if…?”

**_As long as it’s not a spirit box, I don’t care._ **

As he sets up the recording, tapping the little red icon to begin, Ryan wonders if there’s a spirit box app he can get, just to piss off Shane, even in the afterlife.

Then, his stomach goes cold. Afterlife. This isn’t them, ready to shoot an episode, in some paranormal hot spot. This isn’t them in the recording booth or the studio, bickering back and forth about validity with such ferocity that it surprises some people to know that they really are best friends.

This is Ryan, alive, in his bedroom, and Shane, also in his bedroom, but  _ dead _ . Shane is  _ gone _ , even though his consciousness is right here; he’ll just exist as a blip of energy, until he finally gives up and goes wherever he’s supposed to be, and then that’ll be it. Really, truly gone.

However strong his presence is now, it will be gone one day, completely out of his reach, maybe forever, because who knows if they’ll go to the same place, in the end?

**_Ryan?_ **

What if he’s just going to be playing catch up, because one day Shane decided he’d help his friend with a silly little web show, and ended up  _ dying  _ for it?

**_Ryan._ **

The second time Shane says his name, Ryan finally catches it. It sounds the exact same as it did back then, whenever he was spiraling, ready to bolt from the room or pee himself in panic; firm, but not harsh, not hurried. Grounding.

**_You need to calm down. Wipe your face, man, it’s okay._ **

He hadn’t exactly realized his cheeks were wet until Shane said so, and when he’s done drying his face he crumples the tissues in his hands. “Uh… thanks.” Ryan hazards a glance at the other side of his bed, and isn’t surprised to see nothing there, even if it is disappointing.

Shane’s tone is gentle, though, when he speaks up not a second later.  **_Tell me, Ry. What’s going on?_ **

They don’t  _ do _ this, really. Talk about things, anyway. Not that they  _ haven’t _ seen each other messed up over something, and it’s not like they’re stoic or out of touch with their feelings, or whatever. Theirs just isn’t a talking it out kind of relationship.

First time for everything, though.

“I miss you,” Ryan admits, quietly, because if this is something they’re going to do now, he may as well get the big, important stuff out of the way. “Sara misses you, everyone misses you. You know we don’t even eat inside, anymore? I don’t sit at my desk. You’re supposed to be there and you aren’t, and it’s stupid, because I want to get through lunch without sweating through my t-shirt, but I can’t. I have to go home and change shirts because if I sit in our lunch corner, I think I see your big-ass nose and I  _ lose it _ .”

**_Harsh_ ** , Shane comments, mildly, and if Ryan weren’t on a roll, he would laugh at just how normal he sounds.

“I keep thinking you’re right there, wherever I go. My passenger seat’s so far back for your long legs, every time I look over, I’m automatically expecting you to be sitting there, because no one in their right mind would keep their seat that far back unless they were accounting for Bigfoot.”

**_Jesus Christ, I thought we were having a serious conversation, not the roast of the late Shane Madej._ **

“And I  _ hear  _ you, dude!” And that might be weird to admit, but fuck it, Ryan’s going for it now. “I’m so used to you in my head telling me logical explanations and weird jokes, that when you decided to show yourself tonight, I didn’t even believe it was a ghost! Me, the true believer, and I immediately jumped to something  _ logical _ , because you’re just  _ here _ and not and I  _ hate _ it!”

He’s breathing hard, and he’s sure his neighbors heard something of that, so he’ll have to deal with that fallout in the morning along with everything else. As if there wasn’t enough, already.

Shane speaks up a long moment later.  **_Do you hate… me?_ **

That. Sounds really weird. Shane shouldn’t sound timid, like he’s afraid of knowing what Ryan thinks, because he’s  _ never _ afraid of what Ryan thinks. He self-describes as a timid man, but he’s the most fearless person Ryan’s ever met.

“What? Wh-  _ no _ , I don’t hate you!” He’s given up on not looking, glaring at the empty space where Shane’s head would be, if he were corporeal. “I made jokes and played it up for the camera, but I’ve  _ never  _ hated you. You’re my best friend, Shane.” Ryan pauses, briefly, and when he speaks again, it’s hesitant, quiet, but still audible. “I  _ love _ you, big guy.”

It’s another thing they never did. This one, for sure, could be chalked up to ingrained toxic masculinity, Ryan’s years in a fraternity, whatever you could point a finger at to blame. It wasn’t ever said, but Ryan didn’t believe it needed to be.

It was there in Ryan staying over because they watched movies and ate popcorn until balls o’clock in the morning, and after too few hours of sleep, Shane and Sara marvelling at the fact that he managed to burn toast set to the lowest possible setting.

It was there in Shane being an outspoken skeptic and still tagging along on Ryan’s adventures, because Ryan fully believed and was determined to find proof, whatever awful places they had to sleep in or explore in the middle of the night, sometimes in freezing cold.

It was there in Ryan-- though  _ very _ begrudgingly-- sitting through every last agonizing chapter of the Hot Daga, however stupid and confusing and contrived it got, and  _ knowing _ Shane was doing it to annoy him, because he put the effort and time in.

It was there in Shane always having a hand out to steady him, on hoverboards, crumbling floors, or even solid ground, ready with something lighthearted or cool and calm to say to get his head out of the clouds.

**_I don’t think you’ve ever said that before_ ** , Shane replies, the opposite of what Ryan expects and somehow exactly his guess.

Ryan shrugs, light embarrassment washed away in favor of a weight off of his shoulders, and it’s either the sun coming up or his own mind state, but the room feels lighter, too. “Yeah, well. Maybe I should’ve. You should know that.”

**_I do. Do you, little guy?_ **

He understands what Shane’s getting at, and for the first time tonight, he smiles. “Yeah, I think I do.”

**_Do you know… how?_ **

And that one takes a little longer to parse-- not just the meaning, but his own answer to the question. It’s a quiet few moments, sitting in the dark, rifling through his memories, his feelings, things he’d like to remember and things he’d rather not. Finally, Ryan shrugs again, because really untangling all of the feelings he’s dug up over the past several weeks, not to mention loads even deeper buried than he’d bothered to look, would take a very long time. “Not really, but… does it matter?”

Shane laughs then, and it’s so achingly familiar and close that Ryan twists his blankets in his fists, trying to emulate the feeling caught in his chest.  **_I guess it doesn’t, anymore._ **

Ryan doesn’t want to dwell on what that means, so he slumps back down to lay horizontal, head on his pillow. Silence fills the room again, comfortable, companionable, and though he’s physically tired, Ryan doesn’t feel quite so exhausted.

“We miss you,” Ryan repeats himself from earlier. “We miss you so much.”

**_Oh, come on._ ** Ryan can imagine the eye roll. **_You aren’t getting rid of me that easy, Bergara. We’re a package deal, you and me._ **

**_And,_ ** Shane says, audibly perking up,  **_you have your proof. Congratulations, by the way. Take it easy on the Shaniacs-- they’re a proud people._ **

Ryan frowns. “You’re talking like you’re finished. I have questions, Shane!”

**_Ryan, it’s four AM. Go to sleep._ **

Ryan doesn’t want to go to sleep, but he does have work in five hours, and a workout in three. It’ll be hell no matter how he slices it, but it’ll be slightly less miserable if he takes Shane’s advice.

“Alright, I  _ guess _ . Night, Shane.” He turns off the recording on his phone, setting it back on his bedside table.

**_Night, Ry,_ ** he hears, soft, from right beside him, and then he’s drifting.

 

* * *

  
  


Ryan wakes up to his alarm, three hours later, feeling physically horrific and mentally better than he has in well over a month.

In the haze of post-sleep, his mind wanders, considering just skipping the workout for an extra hour of sleep, considering what he’s going to do for breakfast, considering the dream from last night.

The dream.

A ghost. Shane.  _ Shane _ .

The recording.

He’s instantly awake, shoving his covers away to scramble for his phone, and he taps through to the app with shaking fingers.

A recent recording, roughly an hour long, from three to four AM this morning.

A gift from Shane. His proof, his goal, his dream.

He very nearly deletes the damn thing in his effort to get it to play, and when it starts, with a muffled noise that must be his hands over the mic, Ryan leans in close, holds his breath, and  _ listens _ .

 

* * *

  
  


For the second time that morning, not two minutes into the file, Ryan starts crying.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> don't murder me pls
> 
> visit me at https://itsme-yademon.tumblr.com/


End file.
